Rehbar ki Shanakhat — ‘The Mark of the Leader’ when translated into Pashto for those who didn’t speak Urdu.
Fidayee Hamlay — ‘Martyrdom Attacks’.
Tareekh-e-Shiagaan — ‘A History of the Shias’.
All three volumes had been acquired from ordinary bookshops in the Street of Storytellers in Peshawar, fortunately in bulk because — at the behest of the Americans — the Pakistani government had recently banned such inspirational literature. After training they were told to go home and wait to be contacted, Casa being exempt from this because he came back to Nabi Khan in Jalalabad, who intended to use him himself, asking Casa to shorten his hair and also trim his beard to a stubble so as not to appear even remotely conspicuous.
He walks along the water’s edge. He had wished to be away from the house as soon as he saw the two young Americans arrive earlier.
He looks up, wondering — as he used to when he was a child — how high Paradise is. Back then when he’d also wonder if his parents had ever been born, had ever existed.
The most truthful dreams occur during the time of year when flowers blossom on the branches, like now. And always at dawn. The prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, had told his followers that after he was gone prophecy would come only through true dreams, the angels bringing them to the sleepers, creating likenesses and images in their minds to give tidings. At dawn yesterday he had dreamt about being inside the sacred precinct of the Kaaba, taking milk from a gazelle. Waking up he remembered that according to the dream manuals of the believers suckling augured imprisonment. It probably was a false dream, brought on by his encounter with the Americans a day earlier. In any case that was the reason why he had begun scratching away the figure of the deer from the wall as he waited for her to finish praying yesterday. Absentmindedly. He thought he had stopped himself just in time, sweeping the flakes under an armchair, but obviously she had noticed.
Allah is testing the depth of his belief through all this, placing the Americans and the girl in orbit close to him. On which of the two would he focus his truest attention? He mustn’t waver from his devotion or all will be lost. A pious man, someone who had spent his entire life praying, once lived above a dissolute wretch who drank wine and listened to music and indulged in the pleasures of the flesh. One night the upstairs man had the urge to examine the revelries downstairs, while at the same time the downstairs man decided to see what his neighbour was doing. They both died at the stairs. The one on his way down was sent to Hell by Allah. The one going up admitted to Paradise.
Taking the dust path that eventually enters the Englishman’s orchard from this part of the lake, he stops on seeing Dunia and the American man James.
Two minutes on this path would lead to where the landmine lies buried.
They are talking. She’s presenting her report to him, telling him what Casa revealed to her yesterday when his guard was down briefly. And the story about being persecuted over the knock on her window? A lie to be able to extend her stay at the house?
If it’s so then he can only marvel at their shrewdness and elaborate designs. They’ll steal the lines from the palm while shaking hands with someone. But really how could he not notice that the devotion she has been displaying to gain his confidence is fake. She who thinks Allah accepts prayers offered within rooms painted with images of living things. That He accepts prayers from a woman in a veil through which her hair can be seen.
Instead of turning around and leaving, he takes a few more steps towards them because they have become aware of him. As he draws near, another American comes into view from behind the rosewood tree — he had arrived with James earlier.
‘I am a little tired of having to prove who I am,’ Dunia is saying to James in Pashto. ‘Didn’t I tell you who I was when I was on my way here yesterday?’
James points to the other American. ‘He wasn’t at the cordon yesterday morning, so he didn’t know who you were when he saw you just now. That’s all.’
The other white man makes a conciliatory gesture with his hands, saying something in English.
This is just so much play for Casa’s benefit, surely, their way of changing the subject because he has just walked in on their conversation about him.
‘We are not your enemy,’ says James.
‘He was extremely discourteous. I am glad you weren’t too far behind.’
Or is this authentic? It’s something Casa has in common with her, then, being harassed by this group of invaders, these occupiers.
‘He has apologised and I do too. You must appreciate how difficult the situation is for us as well. What can we do?’
Submit. Die.
‘We are here to help your country. We came to get rid of the Taliban for you …’
‘Please stop,’ she tells him. ‘The Taliban regime had been in place for years and no one was particularly bothered about getting rid of it. You are not here because you wanted to destroy the Taliban for us, you are here because you wanted retribution for what happened to you in 2001. I am glad they are gone but let’s not confuse the facts.’
The Americans throw glances at Casa from time to time. A rush of delight in him that she is confronting them bravely. The sight is thrilling. Even if she is speaking disrespectfully yet again of the Taliban.
‘You can’t expect a country to function like a charity,’ James says.
‘Then why pretend that it is?’
‘I am sorry. That was uncalled for.’
‘No, I am glad it got said. At last we are on the same page — without illusions.’
‘I shouldn’t have said that.’ There is regret in the voice. ‘Our government and thousands of other American organisations do plenty of good work around the planet.’
‘Did I say they don’t?’
Now Casa sees that her features are in turmoil. These men have distressed her, as though she needs anyone else adding to her consternation and panic. She must already feel like an exhausted and cornered animal, having had to flee Usha.
A brother, a cousin, a lover, he takes a step towards her to signal to them and to her that she is not alone. Two of their buildings fell down and they think they know about the world’s darkness, about how unsafe a place it is capable of being!
‘All I ask is that you do not scare or humiliate me the next time you need to stop me,’ she says; and pointing to Casa — looking at him for the second time during all this, and just as cursorily as the first — she adds:
‘You are as bad as he is.’
It is as though she has struck him hard in the face.
She leaves, and the Americans too begin to walk away, James raising a quick hand towards Casa — in belated greeting — which Casa doesn’t acknowledge, his entire body shaking and gone cold at what she just did. Only seconds after an animal’s throat was cut, even as he knelt there pinning down the death throes with his weight, he could feel its body warmth ebbing away, feel it begin to grow cold.